


Going Home

by comets_nix



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Archangel - Freeform, Depressing, Sad, Sad with a Happy Ending, almost nightangel, angel - Freeform, but not TOO depressing, warrens recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9780743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comets_nix/pseuds/comets_nix
Summary: I think Warren would terribly struggle with just the fact that he now has a home. A home where he doesn’t have to constantly watch his back, inspect every shadow, hide and steal to stay alive. No, he now has a home where he can sleep in the sun like he’s always wanted to (it’s always looked so nice and warm, but cages are cold and dark.); where he can soar all he wants in the sky with out being shot at, and kiss the clouds goodnight. He now has a home where he can be surrounded by people that like him; people that will take care of him.A home where he can live.After his entire life being unwanted- on the run with the only thing keeping him going being the rush of a fight and feeling of bones breaking beneath his knuckles- it is strange for him to be suddenly put in a place that is not dark, hard, and horrid; but a place that is soft, safe, and strong. He thought it would be easy- starting over in life in a school he didn’t even have to attend. But when the time would come that Hank would open his hospital door- holding a fresh set of clothes out to Warren with a smile- for the angel to walk out and actually begin, he would suddenly realize that it has been a long, long time since he has been welcomed.





	

I think it would start unusually for Warren. He is hurt physically, that much is obvious. The left side of his face is nearly gone- now scarred and twisted in messy pinks and yellows of healed skin. And lets say that his wings have healed like he’d never thought they would. We can not deny the fact that the metal was extremely strong; they are visibly in tact at least a little in the crash. So lets say that now the feathers have returned- but they are hardened are cracked. Lets say that they have a grey tint in some light, and are not as full as they should be. I think if they were to return like this, they would be thin and messy and stiff. Small pieces would fall off in almost a powder when he would move them too much. The skin would be red and irritated as his wings decided what they wanted and what they would do. Hank would have mixed feelings about how they would turn out in the future- say that the feathers were back, but have had a lot taken out of them.  
I’d think that with wings like this, Warren couldn’t fly. His feathers weren’t strong enough. They were supposed to white, thick, soft, flexible, and strong. Ready to lift him him in soaring sweeps up to the clouds. But now they were thin, dirty, broken, stiff, and shattered. Ready for nothing but sad looks and constant torment.  
Warren would be broken after he has healed.  
He would walk down the halls- the thin clothes from Hank clutched tightly in his hand- and feel more exposed than ever. The younger students that would run up the halls to classes or their rooms would stop Warren in his tracks as he would stare at them with wide eyes.  
How odd this was- happy kids doing kid things… The very idea seemed foreign to Warren now.  
But he would realize his staring, and shake his head; continuing on to where he was told his room was. And when he would find the number on the door that matched the one he was looking for, he would rush inside and slam it shut behind him.  
Everyone knows Warren would spend a good amount of time locked in his room. He is clearly not ready to re-enter society yet. It scares him, in a way. He scares himself. I think that when Warren would look at the mirror that was already in his room and see his reflection, he would stop in his tracks.  
His face was broken. His bones stuck out more than they should. His clothes hung way too much. His hair was greasy with sweat and days spent lying in a bed sick both physically, and mentally. And his wings? Oh, God, his wings…  
They would be the worst. They would hang with tiredness and regret- messy and torn.  
And Warren would silently reach up, and take the mirror off the wall. He would set it on the floor, and face it away, not to show his reflection again.  
***  
I bet Warren would have a system developed quickly. He would stay up late, not bothering to check the clock, and sleep only at dawn when the sky taunts him with rolling orange clouds and soft pink wind.  
Warren would miss skies like those. When he used to fly high above the earth in a weightless reality of warm colors as the sun rose to greet him.  
It would call to him in a warm, orange glow against his wings. And he would answer by flying through the kingdom of clouds for hours on end- until the last oranges and pinks and purples had been drowned out by blues and whites.  
But Warren couldn’t fly now, could he?  
No. He was a broken angel, grounded and kept under a roof.  
So he made sure that his eyes were closed and his mind was gone when the sun peaked up, looking for its lost angel.  
 _‘Where are you Warren? Where have you fallen now?’_   
And Warren would be sure not to answer. He couldn’t face his sky crying for him, and his sun looking everyday for its fallen angel.  
He would hide his head under the messy blankets, keeping his wings hidden from the atmosphere that used to lift them. The question would ring through the window and into his room.  
 _Where have you gone Warren?_   
He wouldn’t be sure who was asking this time.  
***  
Warren would spend his nights looking out of the window.  
He would sit on the floor in the darkness that was his room and rest his head on its sill, looking up into the deep reality that was space itself. He would watch as the stars would circle this miserable planet- and dream.  
He would dream of somewhere that wasn’t so hard. Maybe a place that was simple and free, _just like flying._  
Warren would look up at the stars against the blackness of nothing, and dream of what it would be like to fly, just one more time.  
Nothing but air.  
Sometimes in the past he would think that his wings had had a mind of their own, and his body was simply forced to tag along in their ride across the sky.  
Warren missed his wings.  
He missed the air.  
He missed the part of himself that was left behind high above the earth.  
He could feel it, though… It was looking for him.  
He could feel it flying for him in a never ending search, but he didn’t know where it was. It was moving so fast, begging to find him and put back together what was Warren Worthington the Third once more; but he didn’t know what it was. It missed him, he could tell. It was searching and digging and flying to find him, to complete that hole in his chest and allow him to rise back to the sky where he belonged.  
He hoped it found him soon.  
Because Warren missed it too.  
***  
When it comes to food, Warren probably doesn’t have a mind.  
I bet he spent those first twenty years of his life snatching and stealing. First it would have been his wings growing and turning his family against him. He would have to sneak down to the kitchen at night and stuff his face and clothes with food before his father would wake up and beat him back into his room. He would hide what he could get under his mattress, and quietly eat when no one was around and his door was kept locked.  
Then it would be him being homeless- he would dive from the sky in the dead of night and become a hawk; grab what he wanted from shops and stands, and be gone back in the sky before the humans could even blink. Or he would use his wings to jump up from the dumpster he was digging in to escape the angry dogs or pissed off humans, fleeing back into the air.  
There was that sky again; comforting him. Taking care of him. He used to always rely on the wind and his wings to take him home…  
 _‘It’s okay if you’re hungry Warren. There will be other times. Don’t worry, you’re safe here.’_  
And then it would be the cage fights. They wouldn’t feed him very well, would they? They would probably throw scraps at the bars or fence of his metal holding cage in the back. They would land on the floor against the electric fence, and Warren would have just a few seconds to reach through and grab them before the guard dogs did. He would burn his hands as he would only have time to shove them through and grab whatever he could before snapping jaws and sparks of electric would fly at him- fighting him for the rotten scraps. Sometimes he was a second too late, and the teeth of the dobermans or German shepherds would graze his swollen, raw fingers.  
Warren would probably fall back in a gasp, heart racing in his ears and his feathers on edge. Maybe then he would be forced to watch as the nasty canines ate his food in front of him with sharp teeth and low growls, drooling and red-eyed.  
 _‘Whatever. It was rotten anyway.’_  
Warren really hated dogs. Dogs stole. And humans took.  
Warren probably hasn’t had a full, warm, fresh meal placed in front of him since before his wings grew.  
Which means that when Warren is healed and living at the mansion with nowhere else to go, and dinner time rolls around his first few nights, he probably stays away.  
He would shut the door and lay on his bed in silence, thinking about anything and nothing. Warren wouldn’t even begin to comprehend how to eat a normal, happy, freshly cooked dinner with a whole school around him. I bet he would do what he always does, and stay away. He can fend for himself, he thinks. He doesn’t need a stupid school feeding him like some young, dumb student.  
But wow, did that smell good.  
The second the smell of hot food would linger under Warrens door and hit his nose, his stomach would growl and his mouth would fill with spit begging him to go down and eat.  
And as much as Warren would want to obey and run down and stuff his face with whatever the hell they were cooking, he wouldn’t. He would turn the lights off and focus on the current beer he was downing probably too fast. And his stomach would hate him for it, because _‘damn it Warren, we need more than beer and whiskey and water to stay alive.’_  
Did Apocalypse even feed him?  
He can’t remember. Probably not; if Apocalypse had looked down on any human needs as weak and de-powering. Hell, Warren wouldn’t be surprised if his stomach is nothing but a deflated balloon coated in alcohol now.  
It wouldn’t be until his fifth night of skipping dinner and lunch that the X Men would notice the angel isn’t showing up like he should be. He just needs a little shove, they figure.  
Jean would be the first to mention doing something about it, and Scott would be the last to agree to go up and drag him out.  
So they would put their dinner on pause and walk up, confident in their newfound friendship that Warren wouldn’t kill any of them.  
And when Warren would jump at the sudden sound of laughter and quiet voices outside his door along with a loud knock, he probably wouldn’t answer it.  
People wouldn’t be… _paying attention to him,_ would they?  
A few seconds later, Warren staring in shock at the door as if he had imagined the voices and knocking, Ororo would call out.  
“Warren, come on! You’ll miss dinner!”  
Dinner? Oh, right. That thing he’s supposed to go to and eat everyday to stay alive. But no, he didn’t need _dinner,_ did he? Beer and whiskey did the job just fine, so why would-  
“Warren!”  
She would call again. Oh, right. People at the door.  
So Warren would get up and slowly open it, revealing the hot, alcohol filled air of his room. “What!?” He would look taken back by the large group he would now be faced with. He probably wouldn’t be very comfortable around them yet.  
“You’re missing dinner bro,” Peter would speak up, ready to get back before one of the kids snatched his plate.  
“What?” They were serious about this dinner thing? Warren, eating dinner, peacefully, with… other people?  
“Yeah, come on-” Ororo would speak to him more gently, knowing where Warren came from. She would understand at least a little that he would be hard to talk to.  
“I don’t eat dinner…” It would be a quiet reply, Warren unsure as to why he even said it as a look of confusion fills his face.  
And maybe the team should have left him at that. Left the angel to continue drinking, and return to their own meal. But Jean would know what Warren was thinking, wouldn’t she? She would hardly have to tap into Warrens mind to see that his stomach was starving and his mouth was crying, and suddenly understand.  
And Warren would pause for a second in his wave of confusion, eyes twitching for a split second because he could have sworn someone was just… in his mind?  
“Yes you do.” Jean would have to get the words out. Blink a few times to get the pain of Warrens memories and fear out of her own head. The team would notice her slight shift and change in voice, and look at Warren, wondering what she saw.  
And Warren would look at her with furrowed eyebrows, hand loosening a bit on the door.  
“Come on Warren.”  
“I can’t…”  
“Yes you can. You don’t have to fight here…” It would be a whisper from Jeans mouth. Something only she and Warren would understand as things clicked into place for the angel.  
And so he would nod. Step forward. And follow them down the hall.  
The smell would be burning him inside. It would have been years since he’d smelled anything like it- and he would stare with wide eyes as they would enter the cafeteria full of warmth and care and security.  
All those mutants. All together. All eating in peace and joy. No stealing, no fighting, no cursing and spitting and wrestling and punching for rotten floor food that would make them sick anyways.  
No.  
For the first time in many years, Warren would be looking at what home looks like. How life should be lived.  
And when he would hesitate at the teams table as they sat down, Peter and Ororo would scoot aside for him to sit between them, inviting him in.  
Warren would sit, slowly and unsure. But when a hot plate of pasta and bread is set in front of him, Warren would probably just break down.  
He knew he was okay. No more fighting for week old shit thrown at him. No more stealing. No more hogging food down, sometimes whole, just to get it down so no one could take it from him. No more hiding. He could just sit here and take his time. He could eat like you were supposed to eat.  
And the X Men would stop- forks lifted mid bite- as Warren would suddenly start crying. He would sob on the spot and start stuffing his face, sniffing in snotty breaths as he ate his pasta in record speed, bathing in the feeling of warm food on his tongue and in his stomach.  
Maybe Ororo would be the only one smiling and acting as if all is fine, continuing on eating and looking over at Warren with a warm smile. Because she would understand. She would know the feeling. And it would only take a few seconds for the team to get the hint from her reaction, and continue on eating.  
When Warren would finish, he would probably stare at his plate and fall silent. His tears would nearly stop, along with his breath, and he would be scared to look up at the group. To see their reactions.  
“You want more?” Ororo would ask him casually.  
And Warren would nod, taking in a shaky breath as she would hand him another plate and he would repeat the process, only this time he would go a little slower, and cry a little quieter.  
Yes. He was safe here. He could get used to this.  
***  
Then it would be people. Mutants that didn’t want to kill him. This was new to Warren- acceptance.  
He would keep his tough guy act; although he would join the group at their normal table for dinner and lunch and sometimes even breakfast; that was it. He would still stay in his room, now confused and nervous as to what he would do next. He was still shy with the X Men, staying silent each meal and always the first to leave with a quiet ‘bye.’  
He would go to breakfast if he felt like getting up. Then come back and tend to his wings, even if he knew it did nothing. Then he would go to lunch if he was feeling up to it, and eat in silence between Ororo and Peter. He wouldn’t engage in their conversation- he never knew what they were talking about anyways. He would quietly eat and sit still, not giving himself time to fit in a word even if he did have something to say.  
But Warren would _never_ miss dinner. He had twenty years worth of dinners to make up for, right? So he would be sure to be down at the cafeteria every day at exactly six, and sit with the group at their usual table. Maybe he’s a little more relaxed at dinner- the sun is setting with the fall sky and everyone is more relaxed form their long day.  
Warren now would sit a little more lax and slowly eat at a normal pace; maybe let his mind wonder a bit to something else, and let his focus on the others slip.  
Look at him now. _Comfortable._ What a feeling that was.  
***  
Warren would have terrible nightmares of Apocalypse and his wrath upon the world. His voice would speak lowly in Warrens mind when he would sleep; clear as day in a hushed whisper as if he was there, still talking to him; still telling him what to do. And Warren would want him back… He would want the power so forcefully given to him. He could fly again, with the metal wings at his side instead of his betraying feathers… Apocalypse lifted him now, and the sky would die out in greys and blacks of smoke and screams.  
 _“Rise, my Angel…”_  
No; he would stop. He didn’t belong here anymore.  
Warren would wake in a flurry of thrashing wings and heavy, desperate breaths as his chest heaved and his stomach flipped.  
He could sometimes still taste the smoke in his lugs.  
His scars would burn and itch when he would throw himself awake- reminding him.  
 _‘What do you want Warren?’_  
Sometimes he would dream of the cages, which wasn’t so bad now that he thinks about it. It was easier to dream of fighting and simply killing like he used to- just memories- than dream of death and destruction and _dying,_ and oh, god, the fire was the worst part of it. Apocalypse speaking to him- yelling and calling him useless and a failure, and falling from the sky in a screaming jet; gravity pushing back on him as he gripped the front console and watched the ground come closer.  
Over and over, he would dream of falling. Of burning. Of his own death as his skin melted from his face, and his wings shattered around him.  
Why would the sky throw him away like that? The sky was supposed to love him; lift him and support him on his wings. It was supposed to trust Warren, as he had trusted it. And instead, it had thrown him down. Gotten rid of him just as it did the jet.  
Maybe it was punishing him, he thinks. Warren had become bad. Worse than what he already had been. Maybe the sky new he would survive; and new it must reboot its angel to bring him back again.  
 _‘This is not you, Warren. Come back to us.’_  
Maybe he was supposed to be pulled out of the God-forsaken ruins after all…  
But the nightmares never left. He still would fall from his world of fire and fear into his room of cold and dark in ear-ringing screams. He would sweat and throw the covers away to the floor- sit up and spread his wings in desperation to get away- to fly home.  
They would hit the wall, much too big for the smaller room, and jolt him into reality as the sound- real sound, from the real world- would snap him out of the horrendous trance the night terrors put him in.  
He would calm himself- sit on the bed, and bring his wings back in.  
Maybe he would have something like a worry stone- with the small divot fit for his thumb as he would rub it in even patterns; up and down.  
Maybe he would feel just a bit too enclosed, and open the window. He might sit on the floor in his usual spot, and look up at the night sky as always.  
Only this time there would be no glass between them. He would feel the cool night wind on his face for the first time since his arrival; and his chest would feel heavy at the thought that this might be the only way he would ever feel it again.  
 _'Is that you, my Angel?’_  
He would be sure not to lean too far out.  
***  
Maybe on a bad day, when Warren has managed to get himself asleep under the bright sun in hopes to stay up all night, he would have a bad nightmare that really messes him up.  
Who knows what it would be. Apocalypse ripping his feathered wings out of his back with a bone crushing pop. His ribs tearing through his sides as he fell to the floor in screams of agony and pure pain. Maybe the jet. Maybe fighting the poor Kurt kid in the hot, dark maze that was En Sabah Nurs pyramid.  
Maybe they would all blend together in bright flashbacks of hot, searing bones and muscles, and the reek of death filling his body.  
Warren would wake up quivering- frozen in shock so paralyzed that when he manages to catch his breath and re-expand his lungs, he would hardly have time to stumble to the bathroom before vomiting in the toilet, collapsed on the floor.  
So after a night terror this bad, Warren would skip dinner.  
He would lay on his floor, looking up at the window, worry stone in hand, and stay still. Tears would gently gather on his lashes, but only a few would escape and roll over the scars. His wings would be even messier, and have a thin coat of sweat over his skin between the quills of the broken feathers. He didn’t deserve to go down and enjoy dinner with the others.  
Just stay here Warren; calm down. Remember how strong you are. You do not need them.  
 _'But I’m not strong. Not anymore’_  
And the X Men would notice his absence, wouldn’t they? When dinner has started and everyone has found their seats, They would stop their conversation and look at the empty gap between them in confusion.  
And Jean would know that Warren simply wasn’t sick or sleeping. No, she would know immediately that something is terribly wrong with their angel.  
And the team would follow her and Ororo up the stairs and down the hall, stopping in front of the wooden door and giving it a knock.  
“Warren?” Jean would speak.  
No answer. Warren would sit up silently and close his eyes. Ororo would call this time, quieter with worry.  
Jean would feel Warrens mind. Feel him reaching out in confused fear; looking for something to ground him and bring him back all the way from the hellish reality that was his dreams.  
Which is why she would open the door from the inside, using her powers, and step in. The gang would gather behind her, looking down at Warren with wide, confused eyes.  
Jean would move forward; sit and place a hand on his shoulder. “Warren…”  
It would be then that Warren would snap out of it, and glare at her. He would rip his shoulder away, but only an inch. “Get away from me!” It would be a hiss as he would look at the floor. “Whatda’ you care!?”  
Ororo would find her place in front of him now, and touch his knee. “Oh Warren…”  
But then maybe Warren would snap his head up to find Kurt and look him in the eye, silencing her.  
 _“I hurt you…”_ He would look at Kurt as if he was seeing him for the first time- eyes wide and teary as his mouth parted in a silent breath.  
Kurt would return the look, shocked at Warrens sudden words, but take a step towards him. Warren would watch as he gracefully moved to take Jeans place beside him. His yellow eyes never leaving Warrens baby blues, he would touch his shoulder. It would be lighter than Jeans touch, and he would be closer.  
 _“No, Engel… Zaht was not you.”_ Of course Kurt would whisper it, and blink those bright moons of his in a way that made Warrens chest fill with warmth.  
It would start with a cracked breath interrupted from the gagging lump in his throat, and end with Warren falling into Kurt in silent cries as the teleporter wrapped his tail around the broken angel.  
Maybe they would all miss dinner that night. Their angel was much more important.  
***  
Warren would fly again.  
Maybe his wings would heal over night- after he has fallen asleep and allowed the team to hold him and keep him safe in their arms in his time of need.  
How amazing that felt. _Security._  
They would each wake up to find not just the cold floor of Warrens room beneath them that they had passed out on, but two giant, large, strong, white wings spread over them.  
Oh, how Kurt would smile at the angel still asleep on his chest- drooling away- when he would see what Warrens wings have become.  
And we can just imagine the look on Warrens face when he wakes up some time later and sees them himself.  
He would start with opening his eyes to see Kurt looking down at him, still wrapped around the blue boys chest. It would take a few seconds for Warren to remember the night, and suddenly feel awkward. But he wouldn’t let go.  
“Uh…” He wouldn’t know what to say and- why was Kurt smiling at him like that?  
“Engel… look.”  
Warren would turn his head, and see what the others saw.  
See his wings. See his future. See what he really was. Not metal, but warmth. He would realize that all they needed was a little comfort. A little safety. A little remembrance.  
And oh, how amazing the wind would feel under him once more when he could greet the sky again.  
***  
Warren was home.  
Warren was safe.  
Warren was here, living and alive.  
His wings would spread in the daylight as it beat down on him in the yard, white feathers glowing as the sun reflected on them and called him up.  
 _'Come back to me, my angel.’_   
And he would.  
The team would cheer as he would give them a few beats, and be off.  
They knew he would return. However long he was up there- catching up with the sun and clouds since he had been gone- he would come back.  
And as Warren would twist and let his wings take over as they carried him across the sky that was Earth, he knew the lost part of him had been found. He was whole again. He was complete. Feathers at his side. Sky high up above. And home, way down below.  
Because Warren belonged here. Right here.  
 _'Oh, I have missed you my angel.’_  
 _'It’s been a while.’_  
 _'Yes. But you are home now.’_  
 _'Yeah. I guess I am.’_


End file.
